


rest in pieces, peace of mind (someday we will reunite)

by whisperedwords



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Death, F/M, Gen, Immortality, POV Jordan Parrish, SO MUCH ANGST. I'M SO SORRY, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 10:38:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4518666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whisperedwords/pseuds/whisperedwords
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Imagine person A of your OTP having the burden of killing everything they touch, and person B having the burden of never dying."</p>
            </blockquote>





	rest in pieces, peace of mind (someday we will reunite)

**Author's Note:**

> i saw this prompt and it literally SCREAMED marrish and i couldn't say no, bc like, who doesn't need soul-crushing angst in their lives? not me. title from "jealousy" by the neighbourhood. (unbeta'd, i dont own any characters or shows, etc.)

Her hands are shaking, Parrish notices as he drives up in his police car. She’s standing in front of a house that looks like it’s been abandoned, and the phone she’s clinging to looks like it’s been dropped quite a few times. She’s pale, and when he gets out of the car to approach her for questioning, she staggers back, shaking her head and tucking her hands behind her.

“You—you need to go inside. There’s someone—I don’t even know why I was here in the first place, I just walked into the house and there it _was_ and oh, god, there was so much blood.” Parrish reaches out to put a comforting hand on her shoulder, but she steps back further. He nods, instead.

“I’ll be right back. I have to call this in.” He says, and then turns to walk up to the front door. The house is old and rotting, the windows either broken or boarded up. He feels the wood of the front steps creaking beneath his weight, and he _prays_ he doesn’t fall through. (Offhandedly, he notices that there are footsteps behind him—he sees the pale girl in his peripheral vision, walking behind him at a distance.) “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to stay out here.” He says. She freezes in her tracks, but he doesn’t turn around, and instead walks into the house—and almost gags. The body is splayed out on the floor, the victim’s dark hair strewn around her head in an almost halo-like way, and the blood spilling from her side looks like the wound is fairly fresh. She’s pale, though—pale in a sickly, losing-blood kind of way, not like the girl standing outside. Her lips are parted, and she’s gasping for breath.

“H—help—” She chokes. Her hand weakly reaches up to grab his, and he’s shocked at the strength behind the grip. He looks into her eyes and sees the tears of desperation, and he—he’s going to save her. There’s no doubt.

“I’m gonna get you help. Okay? Just hang on.” He turns to face the door. “Hey! Hey, somebody help!” The girl from outside scrambles in, her green eyes wide in fear. “Hey, c’mere. I need you to keep pressure on this wound.” Parrish directs as she walks a little closer.

“Do you have a rag?” She asks, and _what_?

“I don’t. I need—” The woman still clinging to his hand lets out a gurgle, and his gaze on the girl moves for a second, to focus on the victim. She’s losing too much blood. “There’s no time, I need you to just keep her from bleeding out. Okay? Can you do that for me?” The girl slowly shakes her head.

“I can’t. I’m sorry, I—”

“There’s no other option!” Parrish says loudly. This woman isn’t going to die, not on his watch. “Please. You’re the only one who can help her. I need to call an ambulance and that’s not going to happen if I’m keeping pressure on her wound. I need you to do this.”

She’s quiet for a few more seconds, and moments before his frustration boils over again, she kneels down next to him (keeping her distance, he notes—which, why is he noting this? It’s inconsequential) and looks into the woman’s eyes. “I’m going to help you.” She says softly, and then, after taking a deep breath, presses both of her hands to the gaping wound. Parrish exhales loudly, and then rushes outside to call for help.

When he comes back in, the girl is crying, and the woman is dead. He knows before he even takes her pulse—he wasn’t fast enough. She probably had a family—or someone, _someone_ that loved her. He prepares himself to make the call that will eventually have to happen.

But the girl is still crying, and he’s not sure why. “Ma’am, are you okay?” Parrish immediately regrets asking that, because she just witnessed a woman die while she was trying to save her. Of _course_ she’s not okay.

“I—I told you, I couldn’t do this—it’s my _fault_ —”

“Hey.” He crouches so that he can look at her without forcing her to move. “This isn’t your fault. Okay? It’s not. She was too badly wounded. There’s nothing more you could’ve done.” Her hands are still pressed to the woman’s body. She’s shaking a little.

“No, I—I—it was _me_ who killed her,” She insists. “I shouldn’t have—there were other ways, I could’ve—” Her voice breaks off, and she sits in silence, slowly pulling her now-bloodied hands away from the body. Parrish wants to press, but she seems too traumatized to get any valuable information from her at the moment. So he reaches over, and he grabs one of her bloodied hands in his own, and he squeezes it.

She screams and rips her hand away from him, stumbling backwards and almost slams into the wooden walls of the house. He’d try and comfort her if his head hadn’t started spinning the moment his skin came into contact with hers. Echoes of a past he’s not even sure is _his_ fill his brain, weigh down his bones. He’s so _tired_ , all of a sudden. Exhaustion and weariness sit in his chest. His ears are ringing. What’s going _on_? Desperately, he tries to blink away the cloudiness filling his vision, and he can hear her distant sobbing—but she’s so far _away_.

And then, just as soon as it had come upon him, it all fades. He shakes his head a few times and then stands up. She stares at him in horror. “Are you—”

She runs off before he can finish his sentence. He never gets her name.

* * *

 

He learns, quickly, that something unknown was set off in that house. On the drive back to the precinct, Parrish drives through one of the more gang-rowdy neighborhoods, mulling over everything that happened between him and that mysterious girl, and doesn’t even realize where he is until he hears it. The gunshot fills his ears a split second before it hits him, a bullet to the forehead. The car spins out of control and slams into an opportunely placed tree, its driver slumped against the wheel.

He wakes up a few moments later with a headache, a feeling of something _sticky_ on his forehead, and a smashed up car practically bent around him. He didn’t _remember_ getting into a car crash—with one hand, Parrish wiggles the passenger door handle until it gives, and the door swings open. He pulls himself out and wipes at whatever is in his hair.

(It’s blood. It’s his own blood.)

He realizes, with a sick feeling in his stomach, what had happened. There’s no entry or exit wound in his head. But there’s quite a bit of blood, and he can see a bullet hole in the driver’s seat, and _wow_ that headache is getting worse. He was shot. In the head. With a gun. And he survived without a scratch.

He runs home and proceeds to dry heave in his bathroom. Just the _idea_ of immortality makes him sick. The girl from before seems thousands of years away.

* * *

 

He takes a week off from work for personal reasons the next day. ( _How do I tell the Sheriff that I might be conveniently immune to gunshot wounds to the head?_ ) The first thing he does when he wakes up that morning is step into the shower. He washes off the imaginary blood that’s still in his hair, dripping down his forehead, staining his hands. His thoughts drift to the strange pale girl who had tried to save the victim from yesterday. _Her_ hands were bloodstained, too—he remembers the way they glistened oddly in the low light. He remembers the way they shook. Did his own hands shake when they were covered in his own blood? He struggles to remember. He hopes the girl is okay, wherever she ran off to.

Parrish steps out of the shower and towels off before donning civilian clothes and heading to the department. The Sheriff likes him, thank god, and approves his request for time off immediately. “Feel better, Parrish.” He says gruffly, clapping a hand to his shoulder. “Take your time.” Parrish nods, though his head feels heavy.

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.” He thinks he needs coffee. Or fresh air. Or a mind-wipe from the day before. Whichever he can achieve quickest.

Air comes first, but coffee is a close second. He walks down to the small coffee shop that’s just by the station and decides that he’s going to grab a drink and then take the world’s longest nap at home. Of course, those plans change, though. He walks in and, almost instinctively, his eyes snap up to meet the eyes of a girl sitting in the corner of the shop, who’s staring almost as intently as he is. He recognizes her a split second before she gets up.

“Hey,” He says, slipping out of line in an attempt to pull her aside. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” She says coolly, keeping her distance by standing on the other side of the coffee table they’ve managed to stand around. “Do I know you?” The words seems forced.

“You were at the house yesterday.” He says quietly. “I remember you.” She steps back, at that—her eyes are wide, again, and he shakes his head. “I don’t mean—I just, I wanted to see if you were okay. You seemed pretty freaked out back there, and I just—”

“I’m fine.” She reiterates, though her voice shakes ever-so-slightly. “Thank you for your concern. Goodbye.” She turns to leave, but he grabs her arm, and she flinches.

“Hey. What’s your name?”

“What does it matter?” She snaps, snatching her arm away from his grip before brushing off the sleeve of her jacket. “You’re just a cop, and I’m just someone you _claim_ was at a house yesterday.”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re okay,” Parrish says, though he’s not sure why—the words leave his mouth before he can even think about them, almost like a reflex. She stares at him, her hard gaze softening a little.

“My name is Lydia.” She says quietly, after a moment. At that, he smiles a little at her.

“Nice to meet you, Lydia. I’m Jordan.” He extends a hand for her to shake, but she turns and leaves. He wonders if it’s just him, or that touching wasn’t her thing. Either way—he’s got a name, now. Or at least part of one. “Lydia.” He repeats to himself. In a strange way, he thinks he already knew that.

* * *

 

In a disturbing attempt to test his supposed-immortality, Parrish decides to experiment at home. He wants to figure out if this is permanent—the part of him that screams _what if it’s not_ is drowned out by the blood rushing in his head and the thought of how much more _efficient_ work would be if he didn’t have to worry about being gunned down.

He grabs a kitchen knife from his sink and walks into the bathroom. He steps into the bathtub and takes a deep breath. “Here goes nothing,” He says, putting on a brave face; in one swift motion, he plunges the (rather large) knife into his stomach. His knees give out almost immediately, and the blood starts spilling on impact. Gut wounds are always the worst, he thinks faintly as he collapses to the floor of his tub. They keep bleeding and they’re _so_ hard to patch up—at least, that’s what the EMT he used to date told him once. It’s all a blur. It’s then that he feels the room start spinning, and _oh god_ , this is it—he loses consciousness before his thoughts wind up anywhere.

Of course, though, he wakes up a few seconds later, pulling the knife from his gut on instinct. For some goddamned reason, he doesn’t bleed any more. He pulls his shirt up to inspect the gash, only to find it’s gone. Only seconds after he had pulled the massive blade out from it. One hand rests against where the entry wound should be, and he only finds smooth, unblemished skin. _Holy shit_. He peels his shirt off, realizing too late that there’s now a massive hole in it where the knife had gone in. He’ll plan better next time. He pads back into his kitchen and washes the knife off, trying to ignore the fact that the blood he’s washing off is his own.

So he can’t die. That’s…that’s something.

That night, he dreams about fire and red hair and kisses that steal the breath from his lungs. It’s not romantic—not exactly—but when he wakes up, his heart is pounding, his chest is heaving, and he _swears_ he heard a girl’s voice calling his name.

* * *

 

The name Lydia flits through his head a week later, while he’s sitting back at his desk and boring himself to death while filing paperwork. It’s not prompted by anything—just a memory, nothing more—but at that same time, he gets a call about a body being found, and he jumps at the chance to get out in the field.

She’s there, again. This time, though, she’s calm when he pulls up. There’s a little bit of concern that flares up somewhere in him at the thought of her witnessing _another_ death within the span of a month. No one should have to deal with that, if he’s being honest—but there’s something about her that makes him _especially_ concerned.

“Did you see what happened?” He asks when he walks up, and she shakes her head.

“I just…found it.” Her gaze drops to the corpse, and she shivers a little. It’s instinct that has him pulling his own jacket off and placing it over her shoulders. (But why?) She shrugs it off, though, stepping away from him and shaking her head. “Are you going to question me or are you going to let me leave?”

He picks his jacket up and lets her walk away. Eventually, he’s going to get to the bottom of this girl, whatever it takes.

* * *

 

The call he gets about a jumper makes his stomach drop. It’s Lydia. He _knows_ it’s her, and he can’t explain why, but when he hears the words “young woman” blare through the radio, he knows—he has to find her before she does anything.

He doesn’t think he’s driven faster in his life trying to get there. The bridge, that’s what the call had said—and, as he had predicted, the first thing he spies is her long red hair, drenched from the rain that had suddenly started to pour.

“Lydia!” He shouts, stumbling out of the car. “Lydia, please get down from there.” She turns her head to face him, and it’s no surprise that she’s crying. The rain and the tears mix on her face.

“I killed them, Jordan.” She sobs, her hands clinging to the railing. “I—I killed them. It’s my fault.”

“Lydia…” He says, and he’s right behind her, now, his hands hovering to catch her if she falls backwards. She shakes her head. Lightning flashes and cracks the sky in half for a second.

“I kill everything I touch.” She gasps, and if she had told him this when they first met, he’d probably think she was exaggerating, or that she wasn’t good at taking care of plants. But now… “My—my boyfriend was the first. I don’t know when this started, or why, but he kissed me goodnight and then dropped dead on my doorstep and I screamed for hours, and _god_ , I didn’t know why until someone else had touched me, and it was too late. I killed two people in three hours. And then—oh god, then it was my best friend, because she was too stubborn to not hug me goodbye, and as soon as her arm wrapped around my shoulders she was _dead_ and I couldn’t even stop her, and I couldn’t—I couldn’t go on like that, so I shut myself out and then _you_ came along, and I don’t even _know_ you but you touched my hand and I thought you were gonna die, too—after you had tried to get me to save that woman in the house? I tried to stop her from bleeding out, but as soon as I touched her she died.” _That’s why she wanted the rag_ , he realizes. “And you touched me and I swear, I _swear_ I thought I had killed you too, but I—I didn’t. And you know? I thought I had been healed. I thought I had been healed, and I—” She takes another big gasp of air, but her feet slip on the wet metal, and she lurches forward.

He grabs her before she can fall. She lets out a broken wail, and he lifts her up into his arms so he can get her back to the ground safely. Her head leans back against his shoulder in agony, and he wants nothing more than to take her pain away in this moment.

“I killed my father a few hours ago. I gave him a hug and he just. Dropped dead.” She says, her voice barely a whisper in his ear. His heart breaks for her. “I thought I was cured, but I…I’m a monster.” She starts crying again, and he shushes her softly, setting her down on her feet.

“You’re not a monster.” He pauses. “I can’t die. At least, I don’t think I can.” She stares at him with wide, tear-filled eyes, but she’s quiet. So he continues. “When I was leaving the scene, the other week—I got shot in the head. Bullet to the forehead, right between the eyes. I was in my car. I blacked out and woke up a few minutes later, and the only thing I knew was that there was blood on my face, and that it was probably mine. And, you know, because I’m stupid, I decided to try some stuff out.” Amazingly, at that, she lets out a quiet huff of laughter. “I stabbed myself in the gut. I jumped from some really high stuff. I even tried another bullet—nothing worked. I’m still here.” He shakes his head, the ridiculousness of his situation settling unexpectedly well between them. She’s staring at him, now, eyes less teary and more confused.

“Do you want to test that…theory?” She asks, after a moment.

“I…” He trails off, but nods once. Without another word, she carefully lifts her hands up and cups his face, her palms cool and slick from the rain. He shivers at her touch, but doesn’t move. They stand there for a while.

“Oh my god.” Lydia says, her voice choked with tears once again. “Oh, my _god_.” He’s not sure why she’s crying, but hell, he’s not sure why _he’s_ crying, so he decides to just go with it. He rests his hands over hers gently, and she smiles at him like he just told her she’d won the lottery.

“Well, look at that.” He says, trying to fight the inappropriately timed swell of affection in his chest. “Looks like I’m still here.”

“Not all monsters do monstrous things.” She says, almost to herself—her voice is soft, but he hears it despite the sudden deluge of rain thundering around them. Then—“I never got your full name, Deputy.”

“Jordan Parrish.” Parrish answers, a smile making its way onto his face despite everything that had just happened.

“Jordan Parrish.” She repeats, as if tasting it on her tongue. “I feel like I knew that already. I’m Lydia Martin. It’s nice to meet you.” Her thumbs stroke his cheeks gently. His smile gets bigger.

“’s nice to meet you, too.”


End file.
